So, miles of fun with the curdled milk men of Mr. Colby last night. Much interesting interaction involving feathers, hats, apples and pink tights. Oh, and words. Lovely words.

And, props to a friend and blog-reader, Mr. Colby, who is having a show in the East Village (of course) this coming weekend. To quote:

""The Grandest Insanity Poetry has yet." -The Los Angeles Times
Come and watch the Yogurts Saturday, September 7 at 10 PM
at the legendary Bowery Poetry Club 308 Bowery @ Bleecker,
right across from CBGB's
F train to Second Ave | 6 train to Bleecker | 212-614-0505
only $5

www.bowerypoetry.com"

You should all go. I even cancelled with the boyfriend for Saturday, seeing how he's sabotaged every other social engagement I planned on attending with him. So I can wait to make sexo until Sunday, I'm not desperate or nothing.

Don't listen to what they tell you.

Right, as I mentioned, I'm getting paid for two poems. Yippee. No, I mean that. At C/Oasis. Whatever the hell that title means. I think I submitted these poems 3-4 months ago. Anyway, Taint picked up The Empty Bed, and I'm getting some nonfiction published at eyeshot.net. I'm also working on a review of "Signs" which I think is fantastic-- not the review, the movie. I've already cooked up references to Nabokov, who wrote a short story, "Signs" and Checkov. It's all in the movie, I swear. It's very, but not intrusively, post-modern, or even maybe, post-post modern, which would be, what, stop-modern, if you want to get a little pig-latiny with it, and why not.

So my holiday weekend was eventful, and not in a good, "had a barbeque with friends" kind of way. I got to that spot again, the place that I hate but seem to always end up in, where I'm caring for a previously kind and loving significant other who has become psychotic/blind drunk/completely high, and is threatening me implicitly or explicitly with death or bodily harm. This time I did a little better job of taking care of myself. I mean, after he spilled beer all over the apartment, fell and hit his head more than a few times, called me a "puta" 50 times and worst of all, HURT MY CAT, I realized that he needed to leave my apartment, pronto. Of course, it took me an hour after that decision to actually get him out the apartment door, and then there was the cab drive from hell where he kept arguing with the driver and giving him directions (wrong, directions) but eventually I got him dropped off at his apartment. Of course, he was a little confused when I didn't climb out of the cab with him and instead sped away into the rain. I actually had to yell at the cab driver, GO, now, drive! go! just like in the movies. Mucho excitement.

Donch'a hate it when that happens.
Then he actually apologized the next day, which was a first for me. Usually I get scoffed at.